A Hotel In Kentucky

By Abel Ashes (All rights reserved)

A revolving door spins like a sleepy merry-go-round, an automated lazy Susan.
An Art Deco pattern decorates a Styrofoam to-go container on a blue vinyl valet log binder full of black grids on white paper.
Cars and SUV s make confused u-turns with tail lights bright like Christmastime.
The revolving door combs the carpet like a spinster petting her pussy.
The streetlights are ablaze like strike-on-box matches.
The sky is bright tonight like back-lit cellophane over a grey volcanic looking haze.
Puddles collect on sidewalks as the temperature drops precipitously.
A broken glass covered horse statue stands erect by a golden twerp doll.
An enormous crystal chandelier hangs above a stained paisley carpet balcony that reeks of vodka vomit and urinal misfires inadvertently dragged into the lobby by dirty bathroom mops.
The yellow zone looks like lemon zest stretched for half a block then peppered lightly with cigarette butts.
Bronze covered roses are mounted above the concrete hand prints and finger painted cement signatures of horse jockeys.
This seems to fascinate the boring people passing by.
Drunks vomit and walk face first into windows.
Black coffee keeps me company at my lonely station as I try, seemingly in vain, to keep from nodding off.
This coffee was strained through a brown plastic coffee filter apparatus and served in a white Styrofoam cup.
This coffee tastes like roasted flip-flops.
Black paint has been scratched off of a stainless steel handrail in postmodern silver streaks.
A statue of some asshole is waving or hailing a taxi perhaps.
Some joker put a black grime streaked orange traffic cone on his head.
Now he looks like a cross between a discarded Halloween decoration and the resident party clown for the local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan.
The white arches at opposite ends of the pedestrian bridge look like tacky wedding props.
The telephone is greasy with potato chip grime.
Look at the stapler, the doorstop, the cross walk, the time clock.